In Dark Hours
by pagerunner
Summary: No one's getting much sleep in the Amell estate these days, especially Anders and Hawke. Angst and naughty bits ahead, set during Act 3 of Dragon Age 2.


They never speak of their nightmares.

Hawke watches Anders as they happen, however, almost every night. Some rare few dreams still make him smile, but as the years pass they grow fewer and farther apart. Most are harder, harsher, make him thrash in the sheets and go cold to the touch, and the worst of them wake him screaming - sometimes with human tears streaking his cheeks even while demonic, desperate light blazes from his open eyes.

Neither of them get a whole lot of sleep anymore.

Hawke's amazed that the whole household doesn't hear them and ask questions, or for that matter simply leave. He's particularly amazed that Orana hasn't run. One night not long ago after Anders woke from a nightmare worse than most, Hawke crept from the bedroom and found her crouched by the railing, quietly weeping. "I didn't mean to listen, meserre," she pleaded. "But he sounded like - he's…."

_In pain,_ Hawke thought. _Coming apart at the seams._ "I know."

"There was… such _light…._"

She was right, and that night had been worse than simply Justice's glow. That night, there'd been fire. Hawke wondered what could possibly have seized Anders so - that kind of fear, that reflex to attack even while sleeping. Had this been the sort of nightmare Anders said Wardens had, still tormented by the Archdemon even after its death? Was it the spirit's memories, the demon's wishes, some sort of terrible glimpse of the Fade only mages knew and he'd never understand?

All he knew was that he'd had to smother flames in his very own bed, and Anders woke gasping from the smoke, choking out apologies in rapidly dawning horror. Hawke looked at his lover then, wondering in a guilt-ridden moment if the templars might possibly have a point….

But they were too far past that now, and Hawke knew it.

So he said nothing. Orana, perhaps sensing the depth of his turmoil even if she didn't know the reasons, swallowed hard. "I'm so sorry," she finished in a whisper.

Hawke only shook his head, asked for water, and waited as Orana hurried off. In that moment he felt selfishly grateful that she didn't seem to expect him to comfort her, too, on top of everything else.

Fortunately, it's been quiet for a while since that dream. It's not been long enough to forget, but it's long enough for Hawke to let down his guard, even if only by a little. On this night, even, it's Anders who wakes him first for once. Hawke feels the touch on his bare shoulder and turns, squinting painfully through the dim light. The last embers of the fire give Anders' weary face a certain warmth, but his eyes are still shadowed. "Hawke," he says hoarsely. "Are you all right?"

He isn't, really. His dreams are still chasing each other around his head, dread making him tense throughout, and his throat feels rough; he wonders if he's been shouting or crying out in his sleep. The idea that Anders should have noticed it instead of the other way around makes him feel strangely ashamed. Hawke tries to sit up; Anders reaches out to help. "I was… just dreaming."

"Loudly," Anders says dryly.

"Oh." Hawke rubs his head. "Well. You do it so often, I guess I thought I'd give it a try…."

Anders ventures a smile, but it doesn't go very far. Instead, he bends closer and touches Hawke's hair. Hawke shudders under the gentle caress, remembering -

Anders' hand stills, and Hawke feels even more ashamed than he did before.

"Sorry," Hawke mutters. Anders watches him silently for a while.

Hawke has just enough time to wonder if he should say something else, or maybe ask for something, make _Anders_ go fetch a glass of water or a much, much stronger drink this time, anything to blunt the edge of those horrible images, but he knows he's never going to tell Anders what he saw, so he'll never know to offer.

_Why do we do this?_ Hawke thinks, feeling pained and strangely sorrowful. _Why are we so afraid of admitting what we fear of each other?_

Anders touches him again, and Hawke lets his eyes flutter closed, leaning a little closer.

_Because we know_, a voice inside him whispers. _We know that this might have to stop._

And it almost certainly should, although he can't bear to let it end now.

He can feel the strangeness under Anders' skin, although he'll never admit that, either. The barely-banked power shivers to life as they bend closer together, seeking physical comfort in the absence of true reassurance. Hawke lets it come over him detail by detail: their foreheads touching, Anders' breath on his lips, the ticklish brush of Anders' tousled hair. A slight shiver of anticipation races through Hawke's body. "Anders," he says, but the mage stills him with a finger - first to his lips, then his chest, then tracing lower and lower across his trembling stomach muscles.

"This might help," Anders whispers, and the worst thing is, he's right.

Everything becomes quieter - the nightmares, the worries, the plaguing doubts - when they kiss like this, letting their tongues tangle and their words break apart into gasps and pleas. Even in this bed they'd nearly burned to the ground, they can find respite for a few delirious moments. Hawke lets it happen, grasping Anders' too-slender body and pulling him against his own.

They don't really speak after that. They don't need to.

Magic slides over Hawke's skin, then sinks in below. First it eases the terrible tension in his muscles, almost making him cry with the relief. Then it starts a far more mysterious circuit through his blood. Anders smiles in the brief moments between kisses, touching him in sensitive, private places and making sensation flare from within and without simultaneously. Hawke arches helplessly against him. It's so good - Maker, it feels so good….

Anders kisses his throat, then lets his hand drop to the place he'd almost touched before. Hawke's answering cry rattles the room. He thinks dazedly under the noise that if Orana hasn't run away already, she really, _really_ should now, because he's swearing and demanding and oh, Maker, these words aren't fit for anyone's ears, but they're only encouraging Anders, and so it's only going to get _worse._ They could hear this in Lowtown, he's pretty sure. Perhaps even Ferelden. Anders is stroking him with heated, velvety touches and whispering too low to even understand, but the tone alone, sensual and teasing, is making his whole body ache.

Hawke hangs on, too far gone already to do much of anything but let the pleasure take him. They'll have time enough later to really fuck, time to prepare and let Anders ease him open with spells and fingers so he can push within over and over. Or they could turn the tables, letting Hawke bring Anders to orgasm with his own rough, rapid thrusts, or with his tongue, or… oh, they've done it all by now, and the thought of exploring even further is still tempting. But this is about banishing the nightmare, and so it's quick and simple and shattering: Anders' hands on his cock, his tongue in Hawke's mouth, his magic in his body, and the pleasure is cresting before Hawke has managed to do anything to Anders except whisper his name. His hips judder with the sudden shock of release, and he rides the orgasm out until there's nothing left and he collapses, sweating, to the sheets.

In its wake, his head is blissfully empty.

Anders is still above him, kissing his throat and whispering something Hawke can't quite hear while sense begins to return. Hawke wonders blearily if it's a spell, or simply filthy promises, or - the idea makes him shiver - proclamations of love. The firelight on Anders' hair makes it glimmer gold, and when Hawke regains enough control to reach down one hand and lift Anders' chin, he sees those huge brown eyes gleam, too. There's no trace of blue light around the rims… nothing but Anders, watching him intently.

He almost confesses something then, something of how amazing it is that Anders' touch could push away something like _that_ so thoroughly, so quickly -

-but he knows he won't, because the rule is very simple.

They never speak of their nightmares. Not with words, anyway. They only reach for comfort, however fleeting, because deep down, they both fear those visions are too close to the truth.

_I owe him one,_ Hawke thinks. He gestures, and Anders willingly shifts position so that Hawke can reach his still-hard erection; when Anders groans and thrusts into Hawke's hand, swearing creatively and in a way of which Justice would _never_ approve, Hawke believes for a few moments at least that he has Anders all to himself: no spirits, no hauntings, no unwanted memories, no uncertain futures. It's just them, moving together with ever greater urgency until Anders cries out, too, and comes with a jarring snap of his narrow hips. Then he falls to Hawke's side, spent. They lie together, sticky and sweat-sheened and in every way a mess, but it's _quiet,_ and after Hawke tiredly cleans up the worst of it with a sheet corner - Anders murmurs with lazy pleasure at the stroke of the fabric across his skin - Hawke believes he'll be able to fall asleep again.

But he touches Anders first, anchoring his shape in his memory, and reminding himself inch by inch that he's still here, mortal, broken but beautiful and still human in his hands. Anders seems to understand, and lets him.

Then after a while, they both fall still.

"Rest now," Anders whispers. Hawke closes his eyes, holds on, and does.

And Hawke never tells Anders that in his own nightmares, Vengeance always ends him with just those words.


End file.
